


Monster of the Past

by starkerscoop



Category: Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Breaking Up & Making Up, Explicit Language, Happy Ending, M/M, Rehabilitation, argument
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-20
Updated: 2020-11-20
Packaged: 2021-03-10 03:47:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,251
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27647027
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starkerscoop/pseuds/starkerscoop
Summary: Peter had been able to ignore it, at first. It was subtle. An empty bottle here, breath tainted by alcohol there. He hadn’t been living with Tony yet when he started to notice the signs, so the situation had seemed a lot milder than it turned out to be.
Relationships: Peter Parker/Tony Stark
Comments: 4
Kudos: 101
Collections: Starker Festivals Falling Into Prompts





	Monster of the Past

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: Peter and Tony having a fight about money or alcohol
> 
> This is for the starkerfestivals Falling Into Prompts Event! I think I like how this turned out :)

Peter had been able to ignore it, at first. It was subtle. An empty bottle here, breath tainted by alcohol there. He hadn’t been living with Tony yet when he started to notice the signs, so the situation had seemed a lot milder than it turned out to be. 

He started to worry more after he moved into Tony’s penthouse, two years into their relationship. Tony always had a tumbler of scotch at dinner, which didn’t seem alarming until he refilled the glass more times than Peter could count. 

He’d tried to bring it up after the first few times, but Tony was always too drunk in the evenings and too hungover in the mornings to give him an explanation with any real substance to it.

Peter was busy attending classes in the afternoon, followed by work in the evenings. Tony was always working. It didn’t leave much room for important discussions.

He put his foot down when he came home to Tony unconscious and slumped over the bar in their penthouse, an uncorked bottle laying on the bar’s countertop with Tony’s hand weakly gripping its neck. He carried Tony to their bed and tucked him in, unamused at the way his body flopped around like he was dead. 

After that, he got to work. He carried all of the bottles stocked at Tony’s bar to the kitchen sink, emptying every single one, one after the other. He carefully placed them all into a trash bag, which he brought downstairs and outside, tossing it into the first dumpster he found. Unsurprisingly, the bag was too big and too full to be thrown into the trash can in their kitchen. 

He didn’t sleep that night. He sat on the couch in the living room, knowing he was doing the right thing, but fearing the consequences. His fingers danced along his denim-clad knees as the moon descended and the sun broke out of the clouds, too restless to settle as he waited for Tony to wake up. 

Tony joined him in the living room at noon, looking slightly sheepish. 

“Sorry, honey,” Tony rubbed the back of his neck, “I had a little too much to drink last night.” 

Peter was tired of being told the same thing. 

“You said that yesterday,” Peter recalled, “And the day before, and the day before that one.” 

Annoyance and embarrassment warred on Tony’s face for a brief moment, before he settled his expression into one of placation. “I’ll get a handle on it.” 

He told him that every day, too. 

“You will,” Peter nodded in agreement, “I’ve thrown out all your liquor-” 

Tony’s lips turned white with how tightly he pursed them. “That’s not yours to throw out.” 

“-and you’re going to rehab,” Peter finished, ignoring the interruption.

“Oh, am I?” Tony’s face darkened, “And who’s making me?” 

“I am,” Peter said bluntly. 

Tony laughed, but it sounded wrong, more mocking than Peter was used to. Gone was the amused lilt in his voice; it hadn’t appeared in a long time, and Peter wanted it back. 

When Tony kept laughing, Peter cut him off, saying in a steely voice, “You can choose me or the alcohol. Because if you don’t get sober, Tony, if you don’t at least try to - I’m leaving.” 

Tony finally quieted down, leering at Peter with dumbfounded eyes. “You wouldn’t do that.” 

“I would,” Peter said primly, crossing his arms against his chest, “Make your decision.” 

Tony shook his head, escaping Peter’s hard stare by ducking into the kitchen, calling over his shoulder, “You’re bluffing.” 

Tony went to his office that day, partly to avoid the newly suffocating atmosphere in the penthouse, and partly because he had a minibar there. He spent the entire day at Stark Industries, only coming home once he was sure Peter had gone to bed. He hadn’t been able to stomach the thought of having dinner with Peter, reeking of alcohol and disappointing his boyfriend all in one. 

So he’d stayed back and had his PA bring him a burger. He washed it down with a whiskey that burned his throat, but he kept swallowing, punishing himself for being shitty enough that Peter would threaten to leave him. 

He had to get better. He knew it, Peter knew it, his employees knew it. Hell, anyone that didn’t live under a rock knew it. Just - not now. 

He stepped out of the elevator and into his home, leaving his briefcase and shoes by the doors. He took off his tie and suit jacket, looking around the penthouse to see if he could spot Peter. The lights were off everywhere, so he started trudging to their bedroom, figuring that he’d been right in his earlier assumption that Peter was asleep. 

When he switched on the lights in the master bedroom, he saw that the bed was empty. He strode over to their shared closet, pulling open the doors with more force than necessary, and realized that all of Peter’s clothes were gone - save for the hoodie he’d accidentally hung up on Tony’s side.

Peter hadn’t been bluffing. 

*

Three days later, Tony woke up to the shrill beeping of hospital monitors. He struggled to sit up for a few moments, his blurred vision hindering his attempt to scan his surroundings. He realized, dimly, that it was him in the hospital bed, feeling the slight tug of the IV in his hand.

Having ruled out the possibility that his loved ones were hurt, he sunk back into his pillows, relaxing. 

“Tones,” a man at his bedside said, placing a familiar hand onto his shoulder, “You’re awake.” 

Tony’s vision cleared up, finally, and he registered that Rhodey was the man at his side. 

“Why am I here?” Tony frowned, looking around the room once more. There were no doctors or nurses with him - just Rhodey. 

No Peter.

“You tell me,” Rhodey leaned back in his chair, exhaustion lining his face, “You were brought in for alcohol poisoning. Even had a seizure in the process.” 

“Oh,” Tony blinked, admittedly not as shocked as he once might have been. 

“Why were you drinking so much?” Rhodey pressed, “And you’re not getting out of this conversation, so fess up.” 

Tony sighed heavily. “Peter left. Said I could have him or the alcohol.” 

Rhodey didn’t say anything, watching him pensively, so Tony continued to talk. 

“He said he wanted me to go to rehab, and that he’d leave if I didn’t at least try to get sober. And because I’m an idiot, I went to work,” Tony smiled bitterly. 

When Tony was discharged from the hospital, Rhodey sat him in the passenger seat of his car and drove him to a private rehabilitation center. He told Tony about how discreet the organization was, assuring him that the news wouldn’t catch that he was there. Tony stayed silent throughout the entire drive upstate, watching the sky slowly grow darker as they drove. 

When they reached the facility, Rhodey got out of the car with him, staying with him as he checked in. To her credit, the woman at the front desk didn’t look surprised when she saw him. Tony wondered if that was because Rhodey had called ahead, or because the entire world had been waiting for him to get his shit together. 

Rhodey couldn’t stay with him forever. After helping Tony settle into his new room, he gave him a long hug, wished him luck, and left. 

Tony hadn’t been allowed to bring any of his electronic devices with him. He couldn’t work or amuse himself, but the center did allow phone calls to friends and family once at the end of every week. 

He would have minded the restrictions a lot more if he and Peter were still together. As it was, he was just grateful to have been able to bring the hoodie Peter left behind.

Tony didn’t speak during the group therapy sessions. He just sat on his chair and fiddled with the sleeves of Peter’s hoodie, feigning indifference at the way everyone in the group would glance at him. 

He did speak during his private sessions. The hoodie in his lap served as a reminder for why he was there in the first place, and kept him from clamming up too much. 

He wasn’t doing this just for Peter, despite all the evidence that seemed to point to the contrary. He was doing it for himself. He was tired of hurting himself and his loved ones, tired of having his name tarnished on every media source, tired of disappointing everyone in his vicinity. His failed relationship was just the boost he needed to finally do something about his addiction. 

His therapist was happy to hear that. 

Withdrawals were a bitch to go through. He spent his first couple of weeks at the center sick, sweating through his sheets every night and throwing up every morning. His hands shook when he clutched the toilet with white knuckles, shook when he hugged Peter’s hoodie to his chest, shook when he tried to lift his spoonful of porridge to his mouth at breakfast. They shook all the time, sometimes more severely than usual, and sometimes at a frequency that was barely noticeable. 

The withdrawals got easier to manage after the first month, but his insomnia did not. To be fair, he’d already had trouble sleeping before going to rehab. But now he had nothing to distract him. He laid awake and stared at the ceiling on most nights, his mouth dry with the need to drink, and played his memories over in his head to keep himself distracted.

He got angry sometimes. Most of the time, he felt apologetic and guilty afterwards, but he couldn’t bring himself to feel bad about this one. He was eating lunch with his fellow prisoners - they didn’t appreciate being referred to that way, though, he soon found out - when the man sitting next to him spilled his coffee all over Peter’s hoodie, which was folded neatly in his lap (sue him, he was attached - it was his only connection to Peter). 

Tony saw red. He stood up and punched the man, giving him a black eye that would linger for weeks. 

He was placed in anger management classes, which he didn’t think was necessary, but attended anyway. With those classes, his therapy sessions, the group therapy sessions, and daily meals, he was kept relatively busy. 

He got out of rehab in three months. He’d been compliant, for the most part, throughout his stay. He didn’t make any attempts to buy or steal alcohol, not that there was any kept in the facility. He kept to himself, participated avidly in his private therapy sessions, and avoided any fights that occurred near him.

His therapist deemed him ready to go home. Tony himself wasn’t sure if he was ready. Being ready meant combating his addiction on his own. It meant having to face the fact that the penthouse was solely his now, and that there was a chance that Peter wouldn’t want him back. Tony was terrified of what would happen when he came home, and he was sure that it was obvious to the driver that the rehab center had called for him, what with his jiggling knees and fidgety hands. 

The first thing he did when he came home was order FRIDAY to blacklist alcohol of all kinds from all of his credit cards. The second was getting FRIDAY to tell him Peter’s new address. 

He stood in front of Peter’s apartment for ten minutes before he was able to draw together enough courage to knock on the door. 

The door opened, and for the first time in months, Tony got to see Peter again. He was dressed in sweatpants and a plain short-sleeved shirt, his bare feet tapping restlessly on the ground, and Tony realized with a start that he would have to be the one to start their conversation. 

“You forgot your hoodie,” Tony said lamely, holding out what had been his comfort item. 

Peter took it from him, nodding his thanks, and asked, “Is that all you’re here for?” 

“No,” Tony wiped his sweaty palms on the sides of his jeans, feeling lightheaded with how nervous he was. “I’ve been at rehab this whole time. I wanted to tell you.” 

“Oh,” Peter said quietly, “I’m proud of you.”

Some of the pressure on Tony’s chest eased off at the words, but he wasn’t done talking yet, and said, “Have you - Did you move on? I know you ended this, and maybe you don’t want me anymore, or you have someone else, but. Can we try again? Please?” 

Peter rolled his eyes, fondness creeping into his face as he said, “As if I could ever move on from you.” 

He reached out and yanked Tony into the apartment, pulling him into his arms and back into his life in one fell swoop.

Tony’s hands still trembled sometimes. He stayed awake at night, occasionally, but he had Peter to keep him company. The urge to drink never fully went away. He tried to tough things out at the charity balls and galas he had to attend, but the bars were designed to stand out, and he struggled to ignore them. When it got to be too much, Peter devised an emergency of some kind, and they went home. 

For all that he still struggled, Tony was better and he was home. To him, that made it all worth it.


End file.
